What Friends are For
by athenaharmony
Summary: A rough day at work lands Hermione on a Leaky Cauldron bar stool, something very out-of-character. Knowing that something must be wrong, Harry comes to her rescue. After all, that's what friends are for.  Rated T for alcohol references, just to be safe.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I'm not going to lie; I actually forgot that this one existed, so I'm picking it up again now in hopes that it will soon become a finished story. Enjoy!

Also, I do not own the Harry Potter universe, no matter how badly I would like to have all of that money.

Harry was dozing on a ragged excuse for a sofa in the tight, cluttered space that was the Healer apprentices' "break room" when he became aware of a circle of heat forming on the rear end of his trousers. Jerking upright, he snatched a small, golden object from his back pocket with one hand and reached for his glasses, which lay nestled between an overturned paper coffee cup and the remnants of a blueberry muffin on a gouged wooden end table, with the other. His vision restored, he peered down at the lines of small script now etched on his old DA coin.

_Harry-_

_Something's wrong. Hermione's here at the Cauldron. I think you'd better drop by._

_-Neville_

_Typical Neville, _Harry thought, rubbing his eyes with one hand. _Simple, to the point, and completely devoid of anything resembling a detail._

Pulling his wand from the inconspicuous holster on his belt, he tapped it to the coin and watched as Neville's words melted away into nothingness, leaving the golden surface smooth. This done, he paused for a moment and then tapped a second time, etching a new message into the coin.

_Neville-_

_I'm about to be on call for another hour. What's going on?_

_-Harry_

One final tap sent a wave of heat through the metal as the message was whisked off to rewrite itself on Neville's coin. With nothing left to do but wait for a reply, Harry leaned back against the couch and checked the clock above the door. Six-twenty. He had ten minutes until he would be back with Healer Smethwick for the evening, waiting for some poor soul to arrive with an extra head or an uncontrollable need to laugh constantly, so that he could observe the Healer and learn the proper ways to deal with such things.

Fiddling with the mock Galleon in his hand, he wondered what could have worried Neville enough for him to make use of it again. Harry and a few loyal DA members had hurriedly revamped the coins minutes before entering the fray of the Battle at Hogwarts, putting them back to work as a quick means of communication in a desperate attempt to gain some sort of tactical advantage over more skilled and experienced opponents, but few of them had actually continued to tote the things around afterwards. As far as Harry knew, he, Ron, Hermione, Neville, and Luna were the only people who still faithfully carried their coins.

The Galleon warmed again, turning Harry's attention to the message now being scrawled on it.

_Harry-_

_I know, but it would probably be best if you got here as soon as you can. I don't know what's going on, exactly, but something has Hermione in a right state. Let's just say she's not exactly here for tea and crumpets._

_-Neville_

"Not exactly here for" Harry breathed, then shook his head. "Merlin, Neville, can you drag it out any longer?"

Three more quick taps sent a fourth message flying through space and time before finally directing it to the round piece of gold in Neville's palm.

_Neville-_

_Are you trying to tell me that Hermione is actually using a pub as a pub? Strange, but it doesn't seem all that awful._

_-Harry_

Leaning against a wall in the Leaky Cauldron's kitchen, a twenty-year-old Neville Longbottom heaved a frustrated sigh and pushed his hair back with one hand. Discretion and evasiveness were deeply rooted in his nature, and it was sometimes difficult for him to spell things out for people who asked for the simple facts. This was a boon for a pub owner who sometimes found himself overhearing the law-skirting kind of "business transaction" from the far end of the bar near closing time, but not so helpful when it came to getting others to do as he asked.

On the verge of telling Harry to just forget it, he leaned slightly to the right to peek around the doorframe and check on the pub. No one new seemed to have arrived; the only patrons were a pair of wizards dressed in shades of dark blue-Magical Law Enforcement personnel on a break, no doubt-in a booth in the far corner, a shabby older man nursing a cup of coffee that he had purchased approximately two hours before, and a pale, brown-haired young woman in black and purple robes, who sat on a stool at the bar, staring blankly into the depths of a half-full glass of Firewhiskey. It was her empty, lost expression, highlighted by the waning evening light, that tugged at his heartstrings and urged him to try to get Harry's attention one more time. With another sigh, he withdrew into the kitchen and gave his fake Galleon three smart raps.

_Harry-_

_Look, whenever you get the chance, could you please come by? I wouldn't bother you at work like this, except she's been through half a bottle of Firewhiskey already, and it's only been a half-hour._

_-Neville_

Harry ran a fingertip over the small lettering on his coin, silently mouthing the words in disbelief. This done, he leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, and tried to work the situation out in his head. He felt guilty for having been a bit short with Neville. Obviously, something really was wrong. Hermione rarely drank anything stronger than Butterbeer, and even when she did, she never strayed as far as a half-bottle of Firewhiskey-ever.

He fidgeted nervously and checked the clock again. Only one minute until he needed to return to Smethwick's side. Suddenly, the single hour ahead of him seemed as though it would go on for weeks. He wanted desperately to go to his friend and make sure that she was all right, but he had no choice. St. Mungo's kept its Healer apprentices on a very short leash. As the clock struck half past six, he gave his coin three final taps and tucked both Galleon and wand away. Moments later, the creaky, worn break room door closed with a bang as he reluctantly returned to work.

Miles away, Neville sighed with relief as he read the new message on his coin.

_Neville-_

_I'll be there as soon as I can. I'd really appreciate it if you kept an eye on her until then._

_Thanks,_

_-Harry_

Glad that Harry had finally shown a little gratitude, Neville tucked the fake Galleon back into a pocket of his jeans, assumed what he hoped was a casual expression, and stepped back into his usual spot behind the bar. Faithful to his friend's request, he glanced at the young woman seated nearby. Catching his eye, she offered him a small smile of supplication and nudged her empty glass in his direction. He stifled a sigh and dutifully retrieved the bottle of Firewhiskey from behind the bar. As much as he hated to contribute to whatever problem she was having, he couldn't very well refuse to serve her as long as she kept paying him. Besides, cutting her off at the Cauldron would only send her to some other nearby pub, out of his sight.

_She's much safer here, _he told himself as he tipped the smallest passable measure of Firewhiskey into her glass, _where there's someone to realize that something isn't right._

He was on the verge of feeling better when she smiled at him a second time. It was an empty smile, one of simple politeness.

"Thanks, Nev," she said, tilting her glass towards him in a gesture of recognition before downing most of the contents in one swallow. He couldn't help but notice her slurred speech, the spots of red on her cheeks, and the thought of how ill she would probably be later that evening effectively drained away any traces of optimism. He felt like scum.

"I feel bad bothering you all the time, though," she continued as she set the glass down on the wooden bar with a clunk. "How much would it take to get you to leave the bottle?"

He forced a similar empty grin and, bound by duty, named the price. As she rummaged in her bag for the right coins, he looked over her head at the clock on the far wall. Something told him that it was going to be a long hour.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: And so, we discover what has Hermione in such a strange mood. Enjoy!

For the first time since he had come to St. Mungo's as an apprentice, Harry bade Healer Smethwick a quick farewell and hurried off the moment his wristwatch chimed half past seven, leaving the older Healer staring down the corridor in confusion. Harry had a reputation as a hard worker, and it was normal to see him helping out around the hospital until eight, nine, even ten o'clock, but, as a trusted friend had once told him, sometimes there were more important things.

As he had one of the later shifts, he didn't run into anyone on his way to the men's locker room, which he supposed was for the best. He had a feeling that one confused Healer was enough for one night-they had a tendency to gossip amongst themselves.

The locker room was even smaller than the break room, but he was lucky enough to be the only one there and managed to change out of his robes and into a less conspicuous shirt and jeans, tucking his wand into his back pocket and hiding it under his jacket. A quick look in the spotted and cracked mirror on the far wall assured him that he looked like a perfectly ordinary Muggle. This done, he stepped back into the quiet corridor and made his way down to the lobby, where he would find the building's mandatory Apparation points, at a brisk walk, trying not to externalize his rush but also feeling anxious to check on Hermione. Finally, he stepped onto one of the blue tiles emblazoned with the Ministry logo and turned on his heel before being tugged through space and dropped behind a large trash bin in an alley a block from the Leaky Cauldron. Though he knew that the bin was heavily protected by Notice-Me-Not and Muggle-repelling charms, he still checked around the corner before stepping out into the alley, for fear of calling down the Ministry's wrath.

He slipped out of the alley and onto Charing Cross Road, blending in easily with the Muggles as he passed them on his way to the doorway that only he could see. The door, much more polished now than it had been the first time he had walked through it, opened silently-also a change-and he stepped into the quiet, dark pub. Two wizards in Magical Law Enforcement robes raised their hands in a greeting that he returned with a polite smile, already focussed on the only figure at the bar. He knew, even from the doorway, that it was Hermione. Who else would be wearing Ministry robes and tucking an unruly piece of very curly hair behind one ear?

He took the stool beside her. Behind the bar, he caught sight of Neville giving him a grateful smile from around the kitchen door.

"Hey," he said, lightly touching Hermione's shoulder in greeting. She turned to him and smiled slowly.

"Oh, hey," she replied. Her cheeks were very red. "Didn't think I'd see you here," she added, slurring a little.

"Yeah, funny how that worked out," he said, slowly pulling the bottle of Firewhiskey that sat on the bar away from Hermione. "So, how's everything?"

She frowned. "Not so great."

"What's wrong?"

He was surprised to see a tear splash onto the polished wood of the bar before she put her head down on her crossed arms. He stood up and rested a hand between her shoulders. He could feel her shaking a little as she wept, and something hot swelled in his belly, making him wonder if he was going to need to brush up on his duelling skills in the near future.

A few minutes passed before she finally sat up and wiped her tears away with the back of one hand. She was quiet for a moment, looking down into her glass, before she murmured. "I got fired."

Harry blinked.

"You were fired?" he repeated in disbelief. If either of them was ever going to be fired, he would have thought that it would be him. Hermione was a good worker, polite and respectful, not to mention determined and passionate about her job. Harry could not imagine her doing anything to warrant even the smallest reprimand.

She nodded.

"What happened?" he asked softly.

"I didn't do anything wrong," she said.

"I'm sure you didn't," Harry said soothingly. "What did they tell you?"

She sniffled. "Nothing, just left a notice on my desk. Bloody cold. But everybody knows why, anyway."

"Why?" he asked.

She put her head back down. "'Cause I'm just a Mudblood," she muttered.

He tensed. The word seemed even worse when it came from her lips. "Hermione"

"It's true; they're clearing all of us out. The purebloods are getting all kinds of support again, with Monroe and everything, and the Minister's a big baby."

Harry frowned. Patrick Monroe had been all over the _Prophet_ for months after he rallied a group of Muggleborn extremists-the anti-pureblood movement having arisen shortly after the end of the war against Voldemort-and eventually led them to assassinate a distant relative of the Malfoys. The pureblood backlash had been intense and was still going strong, supported by a maliciously smug "We told you so" sentiment, and the Minister seemed to be deflecting the heat onto the Aurors in the interest of self-preservation, allowing the _Prophet_ to blame them for Monroe's freedom despite their round-the-clock efforts to find him. There had been weeks, Harry knew, when Hermione had not gone home for days, operating on coffee and whatever fitful naps she could find time to take at her desk.

"So his solution is to fire perfectly good Aurors instead of letting them catch Monroe and actually cut off the source of the problem?"

She sniffled again. "People are saying that the Muggleborn Aurors are slowing things down, hiding evidence, trying to help him, because, y'know, having the same magical blood as he does makes all of us agree with murder." She hiccoughed and reached for her glass again, but he caught her hand in his and held it.

"People are idiots, 'Mione," he said as he put an arm around her and gently guided her off of her stool, steadying her when she swayed a little. "They just think and do whatever the _Prophet_ tells them is best."

"Like parrots," she said, putting her head on his shoulder. "Really stupid parrots. They should have one as their mascot. Big green parrot in bloody Slytherin robes."

"Exactly," Harry agreed. He nodded to Neville, who gave him a thumbs-up from the kitchen. "You should ask Dean to draw one for the _Prophet_."

A tiny smile tugged at the corners of her mouth before fading away.

"'M tired, Harry," she murmured.

"I know," he said. "That's why you're going home." He shrugged out of his jacket and handed it to her. "Here, put this on."

"Why?"

"It's cold outside, and Muggles aren't accustomed to seeing people wandering around wearing robes."

"Oh, right." She put on the jacket with what looked like great concentration and then laid her head on his shoulder again. "There."

"Great," he said as he led her to the door. The cold blast of air that hit them when he opened it made her blink and seemed to revive her a little, for which Harry was grateful, since it let him lead her down the street and to the Apparation point without too much wobbling and weaving. When they arrived, he put his arms around her waist, not sure that she would be able to hold on to him on her own.

"What're you doing?" she murmured from his shoulder. She seemed unbothered, but he felt his cheeks grow warm all the same.

"We have to Apparate, 'Mione," he reminded her. "I don't want to lose you along the way."

"Mm, okay," she said, and Harry-still blushing-quickly Apparated away with her in tow.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: This is mostly a transitioning chapter, but don't fret—the fun stuff is still to come!

Hermione's flat was dark when she and Harry materialized in the centre of the kitchen, and he quickly lit a few nearby candles with a simple wave of his hand. He rarely needed his wand for such small tasks these days. With the flat cheered up a little, he turned his attention to Hermione, who still rested against his shoulder. He frowned and felt a sense of foreboding when he saw that she had become rather pale.

"'Mione?" he asked hesitantly.

"Mm," she muttered. As he had feared, she grimaced and put a hand on her middle. "Don't feel so well."

Harry hastily pulled his wand from his back pocket and conjured a plastic bucket, which he pressed into Hermione's arms in the nick of time. It seemed, he thought as he rubbed her back, that Apparation had not agreed with her.

When she had finished making use of the bucket, he Vanished its contents and reached into the nearby sink for a dishcloth, which he handed to her so that she could wipe her mouth. She took it with one shaking hand, the other being preoccupied by the important task of clinging to the bucket, and he felt a pang of empathy for her. After all, this was her first experience with the meaner side of alcohol.

"Feeling better?" he asked.

She nodded. "A little bit."

"Good," he said as he gently led her down the hallway. "Now, let's get you into bed, and I'll fix you a potion to help your stomach, okay?"

"Mmkay," she murmured, already dozing on his shoulder again. Luckily, her flat was small, and the hallway was short enough to let them reach her bedroom without incident. Harry lit the candle on her nightstand, illuminating the pale blue walls and dark wooden furniture with a flickering glow. Hermione, seeming to realize that she was in a familiar place, finally lifted her head from his shoulder and sat down on the edge of her bed, hugging the bucket as though it was a dear and long-lost friend. Harry laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Will you be all right here for a few minutes?" he asked, and she nodded weakly in return before resting her cheek on the edge of the bucket. Harry took that as a clear cue to leave. Sure enough, he had hardly taken three steps toward the kitchen when he heard her vomit for the second time. "Are you okay?" he called over his shoulder.

"Uh-huh," came the shaky reply. He considered returning to her side instead of continuing on to the kitchen, but decided that it was silly to remain sitting next to her while she was repeatedly sick instead of spending ten minutes away from her in order to brew a potion that would relieve her nausea. He moved to the small pantry and, knowing Hermione's flat well, knelt to rap his wand against a locked drawer at the bottom. It slid open on its own, revealing its magically enlarged interior, which housed rows of faintly glowing vials, neatly labelled wooden boxes of herbs, jars of various types of insects and their eggs, a small, squat cauldron equipped with a stand and several shiny measuring spoons, and, at the very back, a single glittering unicorn horn in a plastic case. Harry remembered it well. The horn had originally come to him in a blue velvet bag, clutched in the talons of a very handsome Great Horned owl, as a gift from Diagon Alley's apothecary shortly after the end of the War, and he, having no use for such an object, had written a suitably kind note to the sender and then given the horn to Hermione, who had since, it seemed, found a more protective way of storing it.

He lifted the little cauldron out of the drawer and used it to carry the few ingredients that he would need for the simple potion over to the stove. Hermione, ever the practical witch, had had the foresight to make sure that her flat was equipped with a gas range, both for potion-brewing purposes and to accommodate her inherent incompatibility with electricity.

Having cooked for Hermione plenty of times in the past, Harry lit the range without hesitation and easily located a butter knife and plate. He poured a small amount of tap water into the cauldron before resting it in its stand above the blue flames.

"How are you doing in there, 'Mione?" he called as he turned back to the counter, pushed up his sleeves, and set to crushing ginger root with the side of the butter knife.

"Okay," she replied, still a little unsteadily.

"Why don't you lie down?" he suggested. The water in the cauldron began to bubble and he reduced the heat underneath it before tipping the ginger into the hot water.

"I… don't want to," she said, and he winced a little when he heard her throw up again. Healer or not, there were some things that could always make a person squeamish.

"This will only take a few more minutes," he assured her, "and then you'll feel a lot better." He turned off the gas on the stove and the flames flickered out. Moving to a cupboard, he located a teacup and ladled a generous portion of the warm potion into it before returning to Hermione's room.

"Here," he said as he sat next to her on the bed. He gingerly exchanged the cup for the well-used bucket, which he cleaned out as quickly as possible before he set it on the floor.

"Thanks," she murmured. He was relieved to see a little colour return to her face with each sip of potion that she took. By the time she handed the empty cup back to him, she looked like her usual self once more, except for the slightly dulled eyes.

"Better?" he asked.

She smiled tiredly. "Loads."

"Great." He set the cup on her nightstand and stood. "Why don't you change and get into bed?" he suggested as he made his way to the door. "I'll just bunk on the couch, if that's all right."

"You don't have to do that," she said as she stood up as well. "'M okay." The fact that she had to rest a hand on her headboard for balance did little to help her case.

"I want to," he said. He closed the door before she had a chance to protest again.


End file.
